Night Navigation Read online

  Night Navigation

  Ginnah Howard

  * * *

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  BOSTON • NEW YORK

  2009

  * * *

  Copyright © 2009 by Ginnah Howard

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from

  this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Publishing Company, 6277 Sea Harbor Drive,

  Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Howard, Ginnah.

  Night navigation / Ginnah Howard.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  relationship between a mother and her 37-year-old

  heroin-addicted son as they try to find their way after

  the suicide of two family members.

  ISBN 978-0-15-101432-3

  1. Mothers and sons — Fiction. 2. Drug addiction — Fiction.

  3. Suicide victims — Family relationships — Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.0922N54 2009 813′.63—dc22 2008029347

  Printed in the United States of America

  Book design by Robert Overholtzer

  DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The Twelve Steps are reprinted with permission of Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc. (AAWS). Permission to reprint the Twelve Steps does not mean that AAWS has reviewed or approved the contents of this publication, or that AAWS necessarily agrees with the views expressed herein. A.A. is a program of recovery from alcoholism only— use of the Twelve Steps in connection with programs and activities patterned after A.A., but which address other problems, or in any other non-A.A. context, does not imply otherwise.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author's imagination and should not be construed as a factual account of real lives and events.

  * * *

  IN MEMORY OF

  Michael Cope Howard

  Part I

  MARCH

  That's the way the dope chase goes. Hardly any time between good and bad.

  —GEORGE VELTRI, Nice Boy

  The mother sang a lullaby. She made it up, a song of comfort, mentioning all the child's favorite toys.

  —ANNE MICHAELS, Fugitive Pieces

  1 : Home

  THE HOUSE IS COLD. He doesn't look at her, just sits hunched at the kitchen table, with the hood of his sweatshirt up: under cover. Her son. He is even thinner than when she left.

  The stink of cigarettes. Something rotting in the dark of a cupboard, and the sink is right to the top with dirty dishes, hardened strings of spaghetti, grease congealed in a pan. A still life. She could paint it on a wall of canvas: moldy glasses big as barrels, their funhouse faces wavering beyond. Welcome Home.

  The wood box is empty. She knows, without even going in there, what the bottom of the tub looks like. One whole end of the pole barn will be stacked high with trash, a month's worth of garbage, leaking random pools on the floor. And all of it is pretty much how she thought it would be given what he was up to when she left.

  "I'm too sick to do anything," he says. His hands pull at the sides of his hood.

  "I can see that." Close the shutters. Goodbye.

  "Luke took off running with the Bensons' dogs just before you came up the road."

  When Luke didn't come rushing to greet her, she'd hoped it was only this. How she's missed that dog.

  "Some woman from your painters' group called. It's on the machine."

  He finally looks her way. "If you can drive me up to Carla's to get enough to where I can function for the next few days, I'll be able to make the calls to line up a bed at a detox. I'll get some wood in, clean up around here. Make me almost normal."

  Through the window she watches the plastic tarp smack the uprights, most of the last few cords exposed: a lot of the logs will be wet. "All right," she says.

  If you agree not to contaminate this space, she had told him—two years ago—you may stay until you become more stable. This, after she said he could not come home when he called desperate from Oregon. After she had refused to send him bus fare. After she had changed her phone number to unlisted. A week later she'd found him crashed in his drum-room down in the barn, the heat turned to eighty. A cigarette burn as big as a nickel between his fingers where he had passed out without even feeling it there.

  The path from the house to the wood is a slick of ice. It's so March she almost laughs. Everything gray. Dank. Sleet finds its way down the back of her neck as she shifts the wood around, looking for a few small, semi-dry splits to start a fire. Hard to believe that only forty-eight hours ago she was kayaking on the Gulf toward a small island, ahead of her an egret, still, waiting: a shock of white in all that green. That's what she'd like to put on the canvas: the shock of white on green. Or the light and dark of flesh. The life drawing group will be getting together again in Marna's studio now that the hard cold is past.

  She hears barking, scans the hillside toward the Bensons' for a dash of brown. Need to deal with the Bensons' dogs on the loose. It's the only time Luke leaves their land. Soon the Bensons' hill will disappear. Once the leaves are on, no one would know anyone lives over here. Only another six weeks or so. The buds are already making their move.

  The stove is so full of ashes, they spill out as she opens the door. Above her in the loft she can hear Mark on the phone, putting together some arrangement that will yield him some of Carla's morphine, what he needs to bring him to "almost normal."

  She taps the stovepipe to hear how much buildup. Chunks of creosote crunch around the edges of the clean-out door when she starts to ease that open. Probably a lot of low smoky fires all of February. The stove was always Aaron's job, something he took on when he was in sixth grade, the winter they moved into the stone house, the year after their father … after Lee's death.

  There's no newspaper. She needs something to get the fire going. She hates to risk the refrigerator. Any Buddha-calm she's got left, or denial, may drop away. She reaches in, without really looking, and grabs what she knows will be a mostly empty, sour carton of milk. She rinses out the stink, shakes it good and crushes it under her heel. That, with a couple of ripped cereal boxes, has a fifty-fifty chance if the right amount of air goes between the splits.

  She hears Mark say he'll get the whole two hundred he owes to Smithy when his money comes. Smithy, Carla's boyfriend. Smithy's got to be at least fifty, the same age as Carla. Ten years or so younger than she is. Drug accounting is complicated: food stamps, benzoid-meds, transport to buy, homegrown, miscellaneous. What equals what is open to interpretation. Anyway Mark may be gone by the time his disability check gets deposited. Tucked away in detox.

  Do not grasp the detox plan. It may happen; it may not.

  No kitchen matches. The book matches jar is empty as well. These will all have been used to cook up in a flare and now dozens of them will be out in the March muck, tossed from the loft window, still aflame, she supposes. Though it's always painful to come upon these burnt offerings, she appreciates their honesty: This is what I'm doing—this week. She's never actually seen Mark, any of them, in the act. Her first hypodermic encounters—something banging in the dryer, something dropping from a pocket in a stack of clothes getting bagged to go to the Salvation Army during one of Mark's cross-country-bus times—produced a case of the shakes, left her breathless. Now when she stumbles on something, a blackened spoon behind a paint can in the barn, it may make her cry, but it's no longer as if someone kicked her in the chest. She reaches back into the cupboard behind the flour. Kitchen matches, cached for just such occasions.

  B
ut he's been straight with her. Mostly. Her being his rep-payee for his disability money is critical. Gas to drive him to Mental Health when he's going to Mental Health, when he's taking his meds—his license suspended two years ago for not paying a speeding ticket. Food, heat, phone, DirecTV NBA pass, socks. Whatever it costs for him to be here comes right off the top. And he never tries to con any of that. What's left is his. Usually about two hundred dollars. And it's all gone in a couple of days. Running out of cigarettes caused hassles for the first couple of months. Him, needy and wanting an advance for just one more pack. The nine-mile trips to the Quickway in Stanton. The looming possibility that if he didn't get a Camel, she'd end up having to drive him to Crisis on a night when freezing rain would increase her anxiety by times ten. She started buying six cans of tobacco, plus rolling papers, right out of his grocery fund. When his cigarette money is blown, he has the wherewithal to make his own. Which he hates doing. Please, may she never hear another whine for nicotine in any of her future lives.

  She tilts the top log at a good angle and opens the front vents all the way. She loves this big old stove, but it's a bitch to start.

  "Definitely. If I end up getting a bed somewhere, then I'll wire the money."

  There are long pauses. She knows Carla is giving him full scenes of the latest: He said this, then I said that. Her arms doing flamenco accompaniment, her eyes … Her eyes. Back when she and Carla were marijuana-smokers together, back when she was Carla's friend. There in Carla's kitchen, fascinated by it all. The motorcycles parked in the yard, the stories of Harley Rendezvous. The family album of Pagan arrests. Way back. Twelve, thirteen years ago. Five years before Aaron's death. Back before Carla's surgery, before Carla got into pain medication. Before Carla's son Rudy, before Mark, became junkies.

  This fire's not going to work. She rummages around in the bottom of the kindling box for shreds of bark and pushes them under the top log to rest on the milk carton.

  "Yeah, I called Rudy up and threatened to tell. He owed me fifty for the food stamps. I wanted my money." Mark doesn't lower his voice. She's on the truth-side of the operation.

  Drug dramas. And manic-depression. Hard to know which roller coaster you're riding. In the two years Mark's been back from Portland, off and on crashing with her, she's never consciously tracked the sequence of events, but each month unfolds almost exactly like the last: everybody's got money so there's a frenzy—cars in and out down at the barn, the lights burning late, the rumble of Mark's drums, the throb of guitars; the money's gone and everybody's starting to get sick; despair and isolation; somebody hocks something, another flurry; treading dark water until the beginning of the next month when everybody's got money … All of it punctuated by variations of fallout: car wrecks and arrests—not Mark, he never goes to that edge, thank the gods, or he's just lucky. And, yes, the occasional plunge toward sanity: the Navy, a halfway house in Arizona.

  She's a reluctant witness. She turns off the ringers, turns down the answering machine. Closes as many doors between her and it as she can. How many years, how many years has Mark been her main concern? And every time she comes to that question, she always has to add it up again. Since she and Lee separated the first time, when Aaron was two and Mark was four? Since Mark was fourteen, right after Lee's death? In utero? At least twenty years that any call in the night registers ten on her adrenaline Richter. When things heat up beyond her tolerance, she plans flight: a one-room apartment with no return address. She wakes in the night, a rock of anxiety jammed under her sternum, and she starts mind-listing her options: he goes, she goes and all the permutations of that. Or, in what she thinks of as Tarbaby Time, say when he's got another knot of infection swelling his arm that's red-lining its way toward his heart and she's driving him to Emergency again, she wishes he'd just go ahead and kill himself and put them all out of their misery.

  But she knows he's getting somewhere. A lot of the time she's sure this is the best place for him to be. His father's, his brother's ashes buried up on their hill. They're all here together: working on it.

  "For sure. If I go, it'll be at the Great American before noon … Yeah, she's going to bring me up in about fifteen minutes."

  She is preferable to Mom when you're thirty-seven.

  His long legs appear, make their way down the loft-ladder.

  "Approaching Wellsville," he says.

  "What?"

  "It's all set. I could take your car."

  "I'll drive you." Up the dirt road to Carla's. But she cannot, she will not, out on winter highways drive him anywhere else.

  She touches the match to the waxy edges of the raisin bran wrap and closes the stove. Within seconds, there's that reassuring roar.

  2 : Carpet

  HE PUSHES THE ENVELOPE with the remaining tablets under the microwave. Welcome to Wellsville. Got enough to extend the visit until tomorrow night. Maybe.

  Get the fuck out of here. Detox. Rehab. Some halfway house on another planet. A different sun. Jesus Christ, thirty-seven years old. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.

  Luke leans into him.

  "Right, Luke, for the next twenty-four, we've got to focus. You know how hard that is: One thing at a time, right, buddy?"

  Detox. Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, there's a bitty piece of paper with the name of the detox, the number. A methadone detox. More than the Tylenol and TLC around here. Thirty, twenty, ten milligrams of methadone, touch down easy, taxi to the gate in three days.

  Luke follows him up the first four steps toward the loft. "Better not come any further. No way I can carry your hundred-pound ass down."

  He actually had to do that once when Luke made it up all the way. What they'd assumed impossible given the width of the tread, the angle of the ladder. First thing he knew: Luke, licking him in the ear. He'd been sick, sick as a dog, up there in the dark for god knows how many days and Luke makes a house call.

  The name of the hospital? Begins with a B. Begins with a C. North. Way north. Up near the Canadian border. Six, seven hours from here. Pass by Syracuse. Begins with a B. He rummages through the piles under his weight bench. He goes through some pockets. He could call Carla. She had helped navigate the time he took Rudy there. That time he'd made dozens of phone calls, spent half a morning on the web, locating a methadone detox for Rudy. Amazing. That trip probably they were all wasted. They were all wasted. No, he's not calling Carla. He's made his last call to that house. Rudy's ass is in jail. Good.

  Rozmer won't know. These trips during amnesia-time. His connection to his NA sponsor so off, off, on, off again these past four years, hard to believe Rozmer is still saying, You can count on me, man, to get you there. His mom would be able to locate the name and the number: she's a machine of cope and find. He's given her plenty of practice. Begins with a C. He could call her at Richard's. He could wait for her to come back later tonight. Thirty-seven years old and he can't find the fucking name of the hospital. Time. Time. Wellsville time's ticking. He drums it on his leg: tickatime, tickatime, timatick, tick.

  He pulls the high stool over and sits under Aaron's world map, slanting up the low slope of the loft, the one thing he salvaged from Aaron's cabin. The one time he could bear to go in. After. He loosens a couple of the pushpins and flattens the center-sag, smoothes the world all the way to the edge. It starts with a B, north beyond Syracuse. Aaron would have known right off.

  Stay with me, Mark. Wood is safe. Stone is dangerous.

  He can't go there. Can't go there, Aar. Won't make it the fuck out of here if he does.

  What's this? Two circles not far from the Canadian border. Brookfield and Camden. A line leading out to the blank blue of the Atlantic, from which dangles 3155647222. He does not remember doing any of this, but he knows it's the number.

  He stretches out on the bed. Lights a real cigarette, a gift from his mom. Finds the phone card she has fronted him until his next money comes—a phone card necessary to dial long distance, a block having been placed on their phone in a supreme-cope
moment by his mom when he had been on such a long manic-jag he'd run up a bill that, added to his pay-per-view charges, soon blocked as well, scarfed up one whole month's SSD. Survivor's benefits. He laughs. He begins dialing the numbers, certainly a test in itself. He knows all he has to do to get admitted to Crisis is to say he's suicidal. He knows to get admitted to detox all he has to do is tell the truth.

  Yes, he's got Medicare and Medicaid. He last used thirty minutes ago. Morphine. No, he prefers not to mention his pharmaceutical source. He's just got enough to keep him functional until maybe tomorrow evening. His drug of choice is heroin. About two bags a day for as long as he's got money. Yes, he uses cocaine, too. Uses Xanax to come down. No, he does not smoke crack. No, he does not do meth crystals. He's been using since he was maybe thirteen: LSD, marijuana. Lots of LSD. Heroin, off and on since he was maybe in his late twenties. Alcohol? Only enough to quiet things down. He's dual diagnosis. Bipolar disorder. Onset probably about thirteen, his original psychiatrist thought. Just after his father's death. Just after his father killed himself. Though all was not well long before that, he's sure. His present meds, which he's been mostly noncompliant with for a while: one Zyprexa five milligrams before bed, two Neurontin three hundred milligrams two times a day, one Celexa fifty milligrams. They switch him to Gregorian chants. Then an all-business woman back in his ear. He's on the waiting list. Call at seven tomorrow morning, see if they've got a bed.

  Sounds of violent shaking below. He looks down over the loft railing. Luke is at the far end of the living room, his mouth locked in a death grip on one of the pillows. Since he moved his drum set up from the barn during his mother's month away, that corner is Luke's favorite barricade. "Luke. Drop it. Or you're going to be in big trouble with your moms."

  For a second he scans the living room through his mother's eyes. Her careful pencil drawings of hands mounted at eye level. The bedlam below. "Luke! We've got to begin where we are." Luke sinks into a get-ready position. I want attention and I want it now. "Look, buddy, I'm busy. Time's ticking." Luke cocks his head to the side.